


Butterflies

by lilyofthevallies



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyofthevallies/pseuds/lilyofthevallies
Summary: The feeling in your stomach, the sensation that your mother jokingly calls butterflies, have always been associated with him, no matter how long you were apart.
Relationships: Rory Gilmore/Jess Mariano
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> A touchy subject is mentioned in this, so please just be cautious.

When the realization hits you, it isn't dramatic like it is in the movies.  
It's an epiphany, and it renders you speechless and frozen for a few seconds, sure, but there is no bolting upright in bed in the middle of the night, no loud confessions in the rain, none of that. Maybe if you were different people, there would be a more climactic tale to tell your future children, but you're not different people. You're you. You're each other.  
It dawns on you in aisle seven of the grocery store, while he's mumbling about getting the right kind of macaroni, and teasing you about how he has to slave over the stove because you can’t be trusted with any pot or pan. If it were anybody else besides him, the long running joke would have annoyed you, after being told for so long, over and over. But instead, you're smiling, and probably feeling the furthest possible thing from annoyed, and the thought that you'd be content to listen to him tease you about cooking and have him make you macaroni for the rest of your life passes through your head, so quickly you almost miss it. But you don't miss it, and once you come back to the real world you squeeze his hand and get his attention and tell him you love him.  
He just stares at first, but then a smile blooms on his face, one that you are fairly convinced is almost solely reserved for your eyes only, and he squeezes your hand back before saying, “I love you. I think I always have.” He reaches up to caress your cheek, and then tosses a box of macaroni into the basket he is carrying in his free hand and leads you to check out.  
You're lying in his bed that night, the bed that feels more like your own then the one you actually have in your apartment, curled into his side, listening to his even breaths that tell you he is not awake. You think to yourself that maybe the reason your revelation didn't knock you off your feet is because you've always known, deep down. Even when you were kids, when you felt so old but in all reality were still so young, you knew that whatever it was you felt for him, it was special. Even when you were loving someone else during your time apart, you knew, despite your efforts to convince yourself otherwise. When you were at your high school graduation, broken hearted and telling him over the phone that you were done, you didn't think you loved him. You knew. There was no big moment of realization, because the feelings you have towards him have always been a part of you, no less a part of you than the blood flowing through your veins. The feeling in your stomach, the sensation that your mother jokingly calls butterflies, have always been associated with him, no matter how long you were apart.  
You fall asleep happy that night, so happy your dream self can still feel it.

Three months later, you move into his apartment. You've been dating for over a year now, and besides, and you're hardly at your apartment anyway- it feels silly now that you would have even rented it, considering you were with Jess during the campaign trail, stayed with him whenever you visited, and decided to move to Philly after it ended. His apartment is closer to the newspaper you work at now, anyway. You haven't felt so sure about something in a really, really long time, and you expect the fluttering feeling in your stomach to disappear after a while, but it still makes itself known every so often, because he still has that effect on you. He tells you in a rare moment of complete and utter openness that you still have that effect on him, too, and you aren't really sure how life could ever get any higher than this.

But when it's low, it's low. You suppose that's what happens when a relationship harbors the amount of passion yours does. You bicker constantly, but in a loving manner. Your fights, though, are rough on both of you. And yet, neither of you have fled. Sometimes he stalks off into the office to pour himself wholeheartedly into his writing, and you lock yourself in the bathroom and sit on the bathtub reading for God knows how long. But he doesnt storm out of the apartment, and neither do you. You always make up, even if it takes an excruciatingly long amount of time. You try to understand each other, despite the fact that the two of you are the poster figures for stubbornness. And even during the fights, after you've cooled down a bit, you still know why you love him, you know that you will eventually make up, and while you dont forget the reason you've fought after you've done so, you both always make a silent agreement to let it go. 

The ring takes you by surprise.  
That‘s the way it's supposed to be, but you are still floored anyhow. In true Rory and Jess fashion, there is no elaborate proposal. You are sitting on the couch one day, and both of you have a thin layer of sweat on your skin because there is a May heatwave passing through the city and even with fans pointed directly at you, the heat still stubbornly makes itself known. He silently gets up out of nowhere, walks over to the hook his jacket has been hanging on ever since the temperature spiked, and pulls out a box while you're typing on the laptop. He leans down a little and taps your leg, getting your attention, and before you can scold him for interrupting your precious work time, he pulls up from the couch and opens the little box to reveal a simple, elegant ring.  
He doesnt get down on one knee, but you decide you like this method more anyhow, staring at each other head on. There is a vulnerability in his eyes, but also pure, unadulterated love. He doesn't give a long speech- he would be wasting words, because you already are aware of how much he loves you. Still, he tells you anyway, in a short profession that makes your heart soar and those pesky butterflies bounce around your stomach.  
“I love you. So, so much. And I want to love you for the rest of my life. I want you. I want to marry you. Will you? Marry me?” You blink once, letting the build up of tears escape while you do so, before grabbing his face and kissing him with everything you have in you, bringing him back down to the couch and attempting to meld your two bodies into one.  
“Yes!” you breathe out, just in case your actions weren’t answer enough, and you are surprised to find that the wetness on your cheeks matches the wetness on his, though his tears are much more scarce. Regardless of this, he seems embarrassed by it and begins to turn away, but you bring your hand to his face to stop him. He leans into it, and closes his eyes for a second. You wipe your eyes, and then his, and he smiles at you, a big, dopey, lovestruck smile, and you both let out a short, breathy laugh as he slips the ring on your finger.. You admire it, and look at his face and you think he might be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen in your life.

You get married in mid September, right between both of your birthdays. Your wedding is small, much to your grandmother’s dismay.  
But it's your wedding, and you tell her that finally at a Friday night dinner. You announced it to them a few months ago, but despite repeatedly trying to politely shoot down her extravagant ideas, you still find yourself finally having to put your foot down. This is not her thing.  
You know that she is still bitter about your rejection of Logan’s proposal, despite what she might say out loud. That angers you. It was years ago, and you haven't felt anything for Logan in a long, long time. But regardless of this, and the fact that you have made it very clear that Jess is not going anywhere, it seems that she will always be fixated on the idea of you being a Huntzberger. And while he doesn't say a thing, you know that Jess knows. You know that Emily resents him a bit, thinks that you settled, and worse, you know that he knows this as well. It would be easier to pretend that he doesn't, but he isn't a fool, and you'd be making one of yourself to act like he is.  
But despite this, you pay no mind to what your grandparents think and throw the perfect wedding for the two of you. Your small crowd gathers in the church in Stars Hollow, because despite not living there for years, nor being particularly religious, you cannot imagine getting married anywhere else. The look on his face, however, when he sees you walk down the aisle, arm in arm with your mother, is something you could have never imagined. He looks beautiful, you think to yourself, even though you’re the bride and supposed to be the beautiful one. You can’t quite translate what his face expresses into words, but if you tried, the words awe, happiness, and a little bit of nervousness would be tossed around. You know that your own face matches his.  
You decided on traditional vows, rather than writing your own, but they will still be burned into your brain forever and ever. You both say I do, and then you kiss, smiling into each other's lips as you clutch onto each other for dear life. Afterwards, you take his hand in yours and raise it up, and the two of you are wearing matching smiles facing the clapping crowd before making your way back up the aisle.  
The reception is held at the Dragonfly, and while it is still small, the group there is significantly larger than that from the ceremony. You even caved and allowed your grandparents to invite a few of their friends. The two of you allow yourselves to laugh together at their faces when they see the townies.  
He holds you in his arms in a way that is somehow both tight and gentle for your first dance, and you rest your head on his shoulder with your eyes shut, breathing him in. The two of you sway slowly to the tune of The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, and you think to yourself, if the earth suddenly imploded at that very second, you'd die happy to Johnny Cash's voice in the love of your life’s arms. 

The two of you decide to go on a cross country trip heavily inspired by On The Road for your honeymoon, because somehow you have never done this with him before. You decide the whole mindset about the Earth imploding still stands as he grabs your hand absent-mindedly driving down the road in Middle of Nowhere, USA.

When you get back to normal life in November, you are pleasantly surprised to find that while the initial all encompassing glow of being newly weds does eventually fade, you still feel the same amount of love for him, and you can feel that he does too, despite never outright saying so. The butterflies have clearly taken a permanent residence in your stomach, although they've learned to settle down some.  
However, right before Thanksgiving, you find you are feeling a different kind of sensation in your stomach, one that is far less pleasant. It makes you irritable, and you kind of feel bad, but you can't help it. You are hardly able to eat at the Thanksgiving feast your mom and Luke throw back in Stars Hollow, and you feel incredibly guilty.  
You also feel guilty about Jess. He is clearly worried, but despite your best efforts, you cannot help but snap at him when he’s just concerned. You are taking off work after the long weekend because you still feel like absolute garbage, when a simple thought passes through your mind that makes you stop in your tracks on your way from the bedroom to the kitchen to get a glass of water. How long has it been?  
You spin around and throw on jeans and a tee shirt, and bolt out the door of your apartment, barely remembering your purse on the way out. The glass of water you wanted is long forgotten.  
You make your way to the drug store, slower now because Jess won't be home for hours and hours, so there’s no use in rushing. You grab a bunch of different brands of pregnancy tests, pay and mentally curse yourself for spending so much money on all of them, but the thought leaves your brain quickly on your way home as the weight of the situation really sets in.  
For some reason, you cannot pee for the life of you, so it takes a while to complete them all. But when you have, you stare at the four sticks on the counter, not really sure what to feel. They are all positive. You let yourself stand there, head completely empty, before snapping back to reality.  
There are so many lists to make. So much to do. Do you even want the baby? Yes, you think. Does Jess? Oh God, what is Jess going to say?  
You look at the clock, and are thankful that it is almost six. You wash your hands and sit on the couch, trying to read but find it impossible so you put the book down and stare at the wall. Finally, finally, you hear his key in the lock and you shoot up from the couch.  
He opens the door and apologizes for being a little late, before trailing off seeing your face. “What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, hurrying towards you, and you can imagine all of the worst case scenarios running through his mind right now. You smile and reach up and stroke his cheek with your palm, before wordlessly grabbing his hand and leading him to the bathroom.  
He sees the row of tests and looks confused for a second, but he narrows his eyes and then opens them wide, turning towards you in realization. He takes your other hand and brings them to his lips.  
“Are we happy about this?” he asks, his face soft.  
“I think so,” you say, quietly with tears in your eyes. You giggle a bit, and he laughs, and he picks you up and takes you to the living room and spins you around in circles. And then he sets you down and you both cry, openly, with the biggest smiles on your faces. You’re nervous, scared even. But the both of you are so, so happy. Your stomach is fluttering with excitement and apprehension all at once, and while you know it is impossible, it's still fun to pretend it's the baby making itself known. 

You miscarry in January, just a few days after New Year’s. You cry in the hospital, and he sits with you, remaining stoic as ever. But the pain is so very evident in his face, and it makes you cry harder. Your mother has come, but when you are leaving the hospital you tell her that you think the two of you just need to be alone tonight. She nods, hugs you, and pats Jess’ shoulder. That night, the two of you tangle together in bed, clinging onto one another. Your eyes are heavy with tears, but none are falling now. Instead, you bury your head into Jess’ body, which he is trying to stop from shaking. You are shaking as well, but in a different way. You look up to him, somehow hold him even tighter, and wordlessly tell him that it is okay. It is Jess’ turn to cry. 

January passes slowly. Jess goes back to work, and eventually, so do you. You try to get back into a normal routine, but how can you? You feel useless, so you work harder, but the harder you work, the guiltier you feel, because working feels wrong so soon after the incident. It is a  
vicious cycle.  
Worse though, Jess has closed off again, in a way you haven’t seen in nearly a decade, and this time, it's arguably worse than when you two were in high school. He still talks to you, but about work, about a book he picked up on his way home, tapping in to normal conversation points but never what you both so desperately need to talk about. He is hurting, you can see it on his face and you can feel it in the way he clings to you at night, as if you will slip away.  
Not that you're doing any better, though. You know what happens when the two of you keep your emotions from each other, and you’re terrified of what will happen, but you don’t know how to get the conversation going. So you just wait, though you aren't sure what for.  
He sits in the office a lot, but you know he isnt working. The two of you had decided to get a head start on things back in December, began moving things out so that you could turn the room into a nursery, and because of this the office was significantly emptier than it had been before. There are paint swatches, varying from blue to grey to yellow, taped all over the walls. Jess and Luke had successfully moved one shelf into the bedroom, and the other into the living room. You had made room to put the desk in the living room, too, but had never actually gotten around to it.  
At least he can go in there, though, despite his torturous reasons. You cant even get past the door frame. 

Valentine's Day arrives. The two of you decided to stay home together that night, because neither of you were really up for going out. You expected to just order in and watch corny movies together.  
But when you step through the door that night, you are surprised to see that he got home before you. Even more surprised to see that the little table in the kitchen is set, and he looks up at you from the stove, offering you a grin.  
You set your purse down on the coffee table and walk over to him, wrapping your arms around him and resting your head on his back. “What’s this?” you whisper to him.  
“Dinner,” he says, and though you can't see him, you know he has that cocky smirk on his face.  
“Funny man. I meant why? I thought we weren't doing anything this year.”  
“We said we weren’t going out. That doesn't mean I can't cook my wife dinner.”  
You smile at that. Wife. After months, it still feels surreal, but in the best possible way. “It's our first Valentine's Day married,” you remark, squeezing him a bit.  
He turns around and he presses you into his chest, resting his chin on your head. “All the more reason to celebrate,” he says. You know that seventeen year old Jess would have a few sarcastic, judgemental words for adult Jess, giving in to such a cheesy, capitalist holiday. But adult Jess is a lot more emotionally mature and a lot less closed off than teenage Jess, which is why you aren't all too surprised when he pulls back a bit to look into your eyes and say, quietly, “Plus, I think the both of us could really use something like… this,” he says, gesturing to the table.  
You nod, silently agreeing with him, before he moves to put dinner on your plates, and you open the bottle of wine he set out, pouring a glass for each of you. The two of you sit and eat the pasta and chicken he made, and he smirks a little when you express out loud, almost comically, how good it is. You tell each other about your day and he tells you about his and the two of you joke around and it feels so good to just sit and eat and be happy with him again.  
But, because he is so much more mature and so much less closed off, Jess eventually turns the conversation more serious, addressing the giant elephant sitting in the corner of the kitchen, patiently waiting to be addressed. “Ror, we gotta talk about it eventually. Actually talk about it.” You know its pointless to play dumb, so you just nod and meet his eyes.  
“I think we should talk to someone. Go to therapy, I mean,” you finally say, and this time he nods, looking down at his empty plate, rubbing circles over your hand with your thumb. At this point, both of you have been finished with your meals for a while, so the two of you clear the table before going to the couch with the bottle of wine. You talk a bit, with the television playing in the background, and you're surprised to find that while it is hard, it isn't as bad as you thought it would be. You fall asleep wrapped up together on the couch to Heath Ledger running around and singing Can‘t Take My Eyes Off You.

The two of you start therapy next Friday after work. You start off together, but end up only going in together every couple of weeks. It feels good to talk about everything in your mind to someone who is trained to listen. You talk about the miscarriage, work, your mom, your grandparents, Luke, Jess, and after a while you even find yourself telling the therapist funny little tidbits about your car ride to the office, or some jerk in the coffee line. You are surprised how easy the words flow once you open your mouth.  
At some point, a few weeks after you started the appointments, you admit that you blame yourself for losing the baby, but that isn't new- you have felt that was since the night it happened. But instead of immediately saying “No, no, why would you ever think that?” like everybody has told you over and over again, she simply asks why you feel that way. You're taken aback, and finally, after talking it out, you begin to believe everyone else, that it is no more your fault than the cashier's that ran up all the pregnancy tests so many months ago. You walk out of her office that day feeling like an elephant has been lifted off your shoulders.  
Winter turns to spring and then eventually summer, and your appointments become more and more infrequent, going from once a week to twice a week to finally opting for once every month in July. Your world feels less clouded, less miserable. And Jess visibly looks lighter, like tons of weight have been slowly lifted off his chest and he can finally breathe again. His eyes still hold a bit of sadness- yours do, too- and you think that they probably always will, but the sorrow  
and twisted pain is no longer there. The two of you begin going out to dinner again, walking around the city on the weekends, and spending hours browsing bookstores like you used to.  
One night at the end of August, you are lying in bed together after an especially successful book hunt. You are both on your backs, staring at the ceiling with his fingers lightly running up and down your forearm, and you open your mouth and surprise both of you with the quiet words that tumble out.  
“I think I want to try again.”  
You don't say anything else, but you don't need to. You know he understands, and he turns onto his side towards you. You move your head to look him in his eyes. He stays silent for a while, before gathering you in his arms.  
“Okay.” No more words are needed. You fall asleep to each others’ breathing.

Your one year anniversary comes up. Funny. It feels so much longer than a year. So much has happened, it feels like an entire lifetime.  
You go out to dinner, you fancy in a pretty red dress and him in black slacks and a blue dress shirt, because it's fun to do that sometimes, and you have an excuse. At home, you collapse together on your bed, whispering your love for each other the entire time.

In the very beginning of October, you buy a pregnancy test. You're pretty certain you know what the result will be, since you're late on your period, but you buy one regardless. You go to the drugstore together this time, and he waits outside the bathroom door while you take it (because no matter how long you've lived together, you don't think you'd be comfortable with anyone watching you awkwardly pee on a stick).  
You exit the bathroom once you're done, and tell him that it will take a few minutes. He gets two sodas from the fridge, and takes longer than necessary to get two glasses down and fill them with ice and then the beverage, just to kill time. You accept your glass gratefully, taking a long sip, before checking the non existent watch on your wrist and looking up at him. Been long enough, you think to yourself, and he nods as if he can hear you.  
You make yourself to the bathroom, but he stands in the doorway while you make your way over to the counter. You pick it up, reading it, and then look up at him. He cocks his eyebrow, as if to say, Well?  
“Positive,” you say. You don't know why your emotions won’t turn on. You aren't surprised, you had been expecting this. And yet, you still are frozen in place.  
Luckily, he does all the work for you. He steps toward you and hugs you close, pulling you into him, breathing you in. It takes you a moment to respond, but then suddenly, all at once, you are pulled back into the moment. You set the test down on the counter (because ew) and fling your arms around him, kissing his lips, cheek, neck, shoulder.  
You cry into his chest that night, feeling the same feelings you did the first time around, but with the added terror from how the first time had ended. He just strokes your hair and peppers your forehead with kisses.

Pregnancy is rough.  
It was bad enough during the cold months, but as the first signs of summer begin to roll in, you feel like a furnace. You're uncomfortable, both from the constant state of heat and the fact that the baby inside of you is clearly very fond of leg day, and your body aches and your ankles are swollen and you cannot wait to get this baby out of you.  
Jess is kind, though. He always has been, but you aren't so sure you're very deserving of it right now. He performs simple, tedious tasks for you, and rubs your lower calves when you swing your legs into his lap on the couch. He doesn't treat you like glass, though, or less of a person just because you're growing another inside of you and you are eternally grateful for that.  
You complain about the creepy men at work who do treat her strangely- or did, before she went home for maternity- and you bark out laughter at his short, fully serious response: “Fucking idiots.”  
The office has been successfully transformed into a nursery. The two of you painted the walls a deep, green-ish blue, and found some furniture at a warehouse for super cheap. Luke made the crib though, a beautiful, dark wood, but that was currently in your bedroom. The desk was moved into the living room, and sometimes you just like to sit on the couch and watch Jess work.  
You know he’s working on a book- his third, now- but he won’t tell you much about it. Though he’s opened up significantly to you over the years, he is still very much a private person, and you're okay with that. You're excited for him, though. He's gotten a bit more confident in his work as time went on, and you are happy that he is starting to see the greatness in himself that he does, even if it's slow coming.

No matter how much you read about it, nothing can really prepare you for birth.  
It is long, but you read that it almost always is for the first birth. It goes both slow and fast, and Jess is beside you the entire time. He drives you to the hospital, seemingly calm and collected even though you know his brain is screaming. He holds your hand during the contractions, letting you squeeze it, though you are careful to not squeeze too tight in fear of hurting him. He rubs your shoulders and back, reads to you, talks to you about whatever passes through your head as the pain becomes worse and worse, trying to distract you.  
You feel a certain sense of… pride, confidence in yourself for being able to do this. Labor and birth has been something you always tried not to think about when you were younger, it was scary and foreign. While it is certainly no walk in the park, you are a little impressed with how well you are handling it, considering.  
It is nothing like the comedic scenes in movies. Maybe it is for other women- hell, your mother said something about pelting a nurse with ice chips while she was in labor with you. But for you, it just sort of… happens. You do not curse Jess for putting a baby in you, nor do you scream profanities. You figure that that would just be out of character for you, though. You settle on the idea that there’s no “right” way to deal with the pain.  
Finally, and yet too quickly, you are told to start pushing. Suddenly, you lose the feeling of confidence in yourself, and it is replaced with the feeling that you can’t do this, it won’t ever end, it's too hard, too much. You've passed the point of exhaustion a while ago, and you just want it to be over so you can go home with your baby. Your eyes are shut tightly and you are squeezing Jess’ hand again, but are too out of it to pay any mind to how hard you are clutching him.  
You vaguely register his free hand pushing your hair off your damp forehead and kissing you there, whispering to you. “You are so strong. You're almost done. You can do this.” You briefly wonder if you had actually spoken your thoughts out loud and not realized it, but then another contraction hits and you are too focused on that to think of anything else. You push, bearing down, and then suddenly the world stops and you open your eyes in wonder, amazement, as you realize that it's over, you're done, you have your baby. You look over to him, and he is staring down at the midwife’s arms as she grabs the screaming infant, and then at you. He smiles softly at you, and you give him one to your best ability, still slightly dazed.  
You watch as your baby, your little girl, is lifted up to you and placed on your chest. You hold her and look at her in amazement, and then look back up at Jess, who is staring down with admiration painted all over his face, his mouth slightly open. He reaches his hand towards her, almost hesitantly, before softly stroking her face with his finger and smiling down at their daughter.  
She is taken to be cleaned off and checked out by the midwife, while you deliver the placenta. After a bit, you take her back and breastfeed for the first time. You feel strange, and really, really tired, like you could sleep for days and days. But you feel good. So good.

You know Jess is feeling a bit of turmoil. He won’t say so, but you know. He is a great father, even if it's only been a week, but you can tell there’s something going on in that head of his.  
You express this after Eva- Lorelai Eva Gilmore-Mariano on paper- goes down. Her crib is in the corner of your room, where it will stay for the next couple of months, because you read somewhere that you should have the baby sleep in your room for the first six months. He looks at you as if he has no idea what he’s talking about, so you just raise an eyebrow, too tired to argue. Apparently he is too, because he just sighs and turns on his back.  
“I'm happy, so you don't have to worry about that.” he says, and you don't say anything, just wait for him to continue. Eventually, he does. “I never saw myself having kids. I’m happy, but worried, too. I have been, but I guess now it’s just… real.”  
You lean into him, expecting nothing else and start to drift off to sleep before his voice wakes you again, so soft you almost don't hear it, but maybe that’s what he wanted. “I’m worried that I’m genetically predestined to fuck everything up.”  
And there it is. You lift your head up and prop yourself on your elbow. He isn't looking at you, though. His eyes are trained to the ceiling, trying desperately not to look at you. Finally, he gives in as you softly say his name, turning his head towards you.  
“You won’t mess this up, Jess. You are not Jimmy.” You kiss him on the cheek and tuck yourself back into him, draping your arm over his chest. He just lays there for a moment, before pulling you into his side with his arm.

You laugh at the sight in front of you. It is a Saturday in December, and Eva is just over six months old. Jess is holding her with one arm while moving around the kitchen. The three of you are driving up to Stars Hollow this afternoon to spend Christmas there. He is carrying on a silly conversation about God knows what with her while she laughs and yells out in response. You sip from your mug, a grin on your face.  
There’s a familiar feeling in your stomach. The butterflies that moved in so long ago are still very adamant about making themselves known. You welcome their presence.


End file.
